


Shattered

by LiveOakWithMoss



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 17:36:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1991772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maedhros seeks his mother; Nerdanel breaks things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shattered

As he neared his mother’s studio, Maitimo heard a sound like something fragile falling from a great height and smashing into thousands of pieces, followed by a grunt of satisfaction. He ducked through the doorway into the studio just as his mother centered a bust of a vapid-looking Vanyarin woman on a stone plinth, then hefted the large, long handled mallet at her side. 

Nerdanel was smashing statuary again. 

This meant one of two things. Either she was going through one of her fits of dissatisfaction with her work and doing a brutal purge of everything she found substandard (“Your mother’s bout of artistic hysteria,” Fëanaro would call it. “One in which you exist permanently,” Nerdanel would retort) – or she and Fëanaro were fighting again.

Judging by the glint in her eye as she raised the mallet over her head, the long corded muscles in her arms bunching, Maitimo rather suspected the latter. 

He ducked as she brought the mallet down on the bust and shards of pottery flew everywhere. 

“No need to twitch,” said Nerdanel, raising the mallet from the wreckage. “You’re well outside the shatter radius.” Pointing with her toe, she indicated a chalk line. “I calculated the perimeter.” 

“Oh, good,” said Maitimo, seating himself on a low bench on the opposite side of the room, just in case. He rested his elbows on his knees and watched as his mother kicked shards of statuary to the side, humming lightly to herself. She cleared the area, readied another statue, centered it carefully on the plinth, and then gave him her attention. 

“Hello, lovely,” she said, wiping sweat from her face with the back of her hand. She was wearing her sleeveless work smock and heavy boots, and everything from her long, red braid to her powerful, freckled arms was covered in dust. She propped the mallet against the wall and wandered over to give him an absent kiss on the forehead. Seated, he was just about eye-level with her. 

“Hello, Amil.” 

“You look terrible,” she said, maternal affection dispensed with as she ran a critical eye over him and brushed some ceramic dust from his hair. 

“I’m fine.”

“Hah.” Nerdanel went over to her tool bench and began sorting chisels by size. “You’re not as good a liar as your father is, my love.” 

Maitimo stared down at his hands. “I – ” 

"You don't have to explain. I can guess well enough.”

Endeavoring to change the subject, Maitimo gestured to the bust of Finwë she had positioned on the plinth. “You’re going to break that one? I always liked it.” 

Nerdanel snorted. “It’s hopelessly trite. And a lie, besides. Look at the mouth, and the line of the chin. I was more concerned with ego stroking than accuracy.” 

“Still.” Maitimo studied it. “It’s a handsome piece of work. I don’t know how you get such movement in a bust, of all things.”

“Ah, my son, I know you know little of such things, but busts are known for their movement, hence the invention of such restraining garments as – ” 

“ _Amil_.” 

Nerdanel patted him on the head. “You set it up too perfectly.” 

“I was trying to compliment your work.” 

“So you were.” Setting her chisels aside, Nerdanel planted her fists on her hips and appraised the bust in question. “It’s not bad in terms of execution, but that’s not what matters. It’s capturing the _truth_ of the subject that the piece is based on that is important. This one captured a lie, and captured my own pandering and weakness. It is not a worthy piece of work.” 

Maitimo smiled at his mother. “All your work is worthy.” 

She gave him a pitying but affectionate look and took his face in her hands. “I have created seven pieces of truly worthy work, and those I shall ever be proud of, my lovely one.” 

“Will you?” He stared up at her, feeling suddenly desperate and very young.

She pressed another kiss to his brow. “Come what may, I will always love and take pride in my sons.” 

He closed his eyes, taken by a powerful urge to lay his head against her breast and break down in tears, like he hadn’t since he was a child seeking comfort from a nightmare. 

Instead, he rested his forehead against hers and felt her callused fingers brush lightly over his cheekbones before she pulled away. 

“Now,” she said briskly, returning to her mallet. “You would be able to create work just as good as this one – and more honest – if you had but stuck with the craft. You were quite talented when you were younger. Your grandfather always said you were one of the best he'd seen.” 

“Never as good as you,” he protested, uncomfortable.

“Of course not. But you had the knack, nevertheless, and with practice you could have given me a run for my money. But – ,” she raised a meaningful eyebrow, “ – you turned your hands to other crafts. Your father could ever make the sword and bow more appealing than my kiln.” 

Maitimo dropped his gaze to the floor again, feeling his cheeks burn guiltily. 

“You do not always have to follow him, Maitimo,” Nerdanel said softly. 

“Who am I supposed to follow, if not my father?” Maitimo asked the floor. 

“Yourself.” Nerdanel hoisted the mallet over one shoulder and pinned him with a look. “Who else? Haven’t I always taught you that?” 

“It’s not – What if my heart tells me to follow my father?” 

“Your father speaks very well, and very loudly. It is easy for his voice to become confused with the yearnings of your own heart and mind. And I think you are here, in my studio, looking miserable and lost because your heart is telling you to follow more than just your father, and in a different direction.” 

Maitimo didn’t deny it. He couldn’t. “I seem to have made my choice, though,” he said, and was ashamed at how his voice cracked. 

“Nothing is set in stone,” said Nerdanel, and brought the mallet down on the bust. 

In the aftermath, as the dust settled and bits of pottery wobbled to a halt in various corners, Maitimo murmured, “Will he ever forgive me for having chosen as I did?” 

“Your valiant cousin?” Nerdanel kicked a shard out of her way. “I wouldn’t.” Her face was grim, and it was clear to Maitimo that she, at least, had already made her choice. “But then, Findekáno has always had a more forgiving soul than I.” 

“Maitimo?” 

A dark head poked into the studio, and Makalaurë’s pale face broke into a relieved smile as he spotted his brother. “There you are! You vanished, after – We weren’t sure where you’d gone, and I was worried…”

“I’m here,” said Maitimo, and Makalaurë came to sit beside him, bumping his shoulder lightly with his own. 

“Will you come up to the house?” Makalaurë asked. “Father says we have much to talk about, and the twins are asking for you.”

Maitimo felt a leaden weight settle over him, bowing his shoulders and starting an acid burn in his stomach. But, “I will come,” he said. 

“He will come,” said Nerdanel, who was watching him thoughtfully. She turned to her second son and tugged his curls lightly. “But he has something to do first, my sweet.” 

“What’s that?” 

Nerdanel handed the mallet to Maitimo with a knowing look. “He has to shatter some stone.”

  

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. I love Nerdanel. I imagine her short, stocky, well-muscled, and covered in freckles. I imagine her more plainspoken and prone to cursing than her husband. I imagine her very affectionate with her sons, if periodically distracted. I imagine she is as capable of holding a grudge as Fëanor. I imagine she doesn't take shit.  
> 1\. In my headcanon, Maglor and Nerdanel are the only members of his immediate family who regularly call Maedhros "Maitimo." Incidentally, I headcanon that these are the members of his immediate family with whom he is closest.


End file.
